


Some Sort of Monster

by WL_Erkling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Knotting, Werewolf, dubcon, horrorfest2018, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-04-01 02:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13988676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WL_Erkling/pseuds/WL_Erkling
Summary: One time— one time was enough to give Tonks the need for something Remus wasn’t willing to offer. How far will she go to lose herself, to find that intensity again?





	Some Sort of Monster

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to LRThunder for the prompt (listed at the end for spoilers)
> 
> Also a huge shout-out to oblivionbaby for the beta
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters, settings, themes, etc. from the Harry Potter universe are property of J.K Rowling. I make no profit from the writing or sharing of this story.

“Did I do this?”

 

She feels the grasp of fingers against her arm, rolling her toward the center of the bed. His face comes into focus but it’s hazy.

 

“Did I do this?” he asks again, and she’s not sure how to answer the question since she’s not sure what he means.

 

Squinting against the morning light, she rolls a cotton-tongue around until it more closely resembles something she can speak with. “What are you talking about?”

 

“Look!” he says frantically, tugging the covers away.

 

On display is her body, her _real_ body. It’s taken some time for her to get used to the urge to change it, to morph it into something more pleasing, but she’s finally _there_ with him.

 

“What’s wrong? Why are you freaking out?”  
  
He sits up and starts to pull away, long legs folding, unfolding, taking him farther from her than she wants.

 

“Look at yourself. You’re covered in them.” She watches him scrub at his eyes, then drag the lids downward, pulling his lips into a frown. “I did this.”

 

“Fuck’s sake, Remus. What are you talking about?”

 

She’s up on her elbows now, looking at her exposed skin. One knuckle comes up to rub away sleep, to try and bring life and awareness to the conversation.

 

“Why are you so calm about this? Don’t you feel them? I hurt you. _Oh god._ ” He kneels, hands falling to his thighs with palms together as if in prayer.

 

Remus Lupin doesn’t pray.

 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she turns back to look at the dejected man on the floor. “Are you talking about this?”

 

Her fingers slowly trace over the outline of his teeth where they’ve quite obviously sunk into her shoulder. She doesn’t notice the open-mouthed disgust on his face as she bites her lip, a moan slipping through as she presses the tender spots.

 

“You have to leave,” he says in such a strained voice she jerks from the sound, fingers digging a little too hard into her own skin.

 

“Leave?” she pauses. “Why would I leave? Are you daft?” At this, she moves to stand in front of him.

 

“Look at you, Tonks.” Sobs, half-hearted attempts at deep breathing are preventing him from getting out full sentences. “You’re covered—there are so many—I did this.”

 

The crack of her palm against his cheek echoes in the room. He reels back for a moment. He doesn’t defend himself. He doesn’t move away or ask her to stop.

 

Instead, Remus lowers his chin and waits.

 

“Get the fuck over yourself, Remus. I wanted this. I wanted everything we did last night. If you think for one minute—” here she takes a breath to gather herself “—if you think for one minute that I didn’t want anything we did then you might as well keep doing what you’re doing because I don’t deserve _this_.”

 

“You’re right,” he croaks. When she cocks a hip with one hand perched there, he continues, “You don’t deserve any of it.”

 

“Fuck. You. Fuck you, Remus. If you didn’t want me, all you had to do was say so. You didn’t have to fucking use me and drop me the next day.” Tonks starts picking up her scattered clothing, tugging on a pair of pants and a bra. “I don’t need to deal with this.”

 

“ _Tonks_. That’s not what I meant. That’s—”

 

The glare stops him. She’s hopping with one leg in a pair of jeans as she starts yelling, “Find someone else to fuck, Remus. I thought this was—never mind what I thought. It obviously isn’t.”

 

“That isn’t what this is—was. I just can’t. No. I—I’m so afraid.”

 

She stops.

 

“I’m so afraid of losing control. I can’t ever lose control with you. If I hurt you—really hurt you, I couldn’t ever forgive myself.”

 

A wary eyebrow lifts in question, but all she does is finish buttoning up her jeans.

 

“I never wanted to find someone. I never thought someone would want me. I can’t take the chance of hurting you, of creating a child—”

 

“Who said anything about children?”

 

They stare from across the room. She reaches for her shirt, tugs it over her unruly purple hair and pads toward him.

 

Remus looks up at her. “I can’t do this anymore, Tonks.”

 

Her palm cups his jaw, thumb rubbing softly where it’s reddened from earlier. “I loved you, Remus Lupin.”

 

Crying in earnest, he leans into the touch. “I love you, too. That’s why I have to do this.” He grabs her hand with both of his and kisses the curve of her palms.

 

“You know what, Remus?” she says softly. “I enjoyed last night.” At the drop of his hands, she starts yelling at him. “Does that make me a freak? Am I some sort of monster to you?”

 

He looks up at her in shock for a moment, and whispers, “No, why would you say that?”

 

“For the first time, Remus, I felt _you_. I felt you let go and you were there with _me_ the whole night. You didn’t hold back. You didn’t pretend or give me a half-truth because something in you told you to. I didn’t have to watch you jerk off because you thought I couldn’t handle it. No, you gave me everything, and I _wanted_ it. Can’t you see?”

 

He doesn’t answer right away. When she comes closer, as if she’ll kiss him, he scrambles away. The tense pull of her shoulders is obvious and she straightens.

 

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.” The mantra is repeated until she can no longer hear it. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Tonks. I can’t do it again.”

 

She huffs, a tug at the corner of her mouth opens her lips, and he waits.

 

“What if I want you to?” she asks before turning and slamming the door behind her.

 

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

 

Soft light from the waxing moon filters through the window. Upturned nose and closed eyes soak it in as Tonks tries to stand still, tries to keep from fleeing.

 

She can’t.

 

Her feet are restless, unable to remain in place. Her chin drops, eyes open as she resumes the circuitous walk from window to kitchen, around the table, and back to the window.

 

Memories of last month keep her in a heightened state of awareness—arousal. The throbbing ache she attempts to ignore grows steadily each time she passes the window. With a growl of frustration, she splays her open hands on the sill, grips it tightly and shakes her brunette curls.

 

“Not enough,” she whimpers, though no one is there to answer. No one is there to sate her like— _“Remus_.”

 

The name is both a whisper and wish. She remembers the feral way he climbed up her body, the way he couldn’t wait to be inside her, the way he tore her underwear from her body and tossed it aside.

 

One hand slides down her inner thigh, absently rubbing at the edge of her labia beneath her oversized shirt. She’d foregone much else in the panicked sweating of her anxious pacing. The feel of her swollen skin, of the way her fingertip brushes so gently sends a shiver up through her shoulders until she feels the bending of a nail on her other hand.

 

Perhaps it’s the way that exploring finger slips just inside, between that has her pushing away from the window and stalking toward the shower. Perhaps it’s the memory of Remus’ tongue doing the very same; she doesn’t care.

 

Scalding water comes down on her shoulders, and she leans her head under the spray, droplets wrapping around her jaw to fall from her chin. Two fingers tuck neatly against her clit, massaging until she feels _just_ on the edge. Once she starts tipping, Tonks puts one hand on the wall as the other moves further, inserts those wicked fingers inside, curling up and pumping, pumping until there’s no more tension—it’s squirting around her fingers onto the floor of the shower.

 

Panting, lazily stroking along the inside of her thigh, Tonks is quite startled when a Patronus jumps halfway through her shower curtain. She stands upright, waiting for the message.

 

“Ministry assignment: new information on possible werewolf gathering, associates of known Death Eaters. Respond if you’re able to recon tonight.”

 

Licking her lips and pushing aside the curtain, Tonks grabs at her wand.

 

“ _Expecto Patronum_.” When the wolf appears, she frowns slightly before clearing her throat and saying, “Assignment accepted. Send the details.”

 

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

 

Tingling starts in her knees. She’s crouched behind a thick set of bushes with a heavy set of disillusionment and silencing charms, but Tonks still finds it difficult to breathe. Just beyond her hideout, she can make out a cluster of tents. They’re large enough for three, maybe four people if the occupants want to get awfully familiar with one another. Small campfires are crackling and she smells something faint having cooked recently. Rabbits maybe? She isn’t sure, but she knows the scent.

 

Rustling pulls her from trying to figure out what they’d had for dinner. She looks to her right. There’s a tent-flap opening and closing. Two men hunch over as they discuss something quickly—one of them briskly walking away further into the darkness. The other stands over the fire, twisting his hands over the flames with a grimace.

 

After about an hour, Tonks is only counting around fifteen individuals. There might be more sitting in the tents, unwilling to come out in favor of sleep. Either way, this is a small group. It’s most certainly not a main force. If anything, it’s a sentry team; lookouts they send to skirmish and retreat.

 

Alone, but knowing this band is small, Tonks feels comfortable stepping outside the box. She allows the familiar figure to take over and shivers as the blond hair slides down her shoulders, over her back. The increased height pushes her slightly above the nearest bush and she has to crouch even lower.

 

Her fingers wrap gently around the emergency Portkey at her wrist before taking out the flask tucked at her ankle. Several strong pulls later, she’s got a decent smell of the stuff on her.

 

“Now or never,” she whispers.

 

When she rises, she walks with a little more sway than necessary as she wanders into the camp. Loose Muggle clothes are more than appropriate here, and she’s glad she wore them. More appropriate, she knows the face she’s using is attractive; tall, blonde, and blue eyes—works every time.

 

One of the men steps in front of her almost immediately, scenting the air with an upturned nose. Tonks notices a distinct lack of women as she moves closer, picking out more tents in the low light. The man before her barks a laugh, stops her with a rough grab at her waist.

 

“What do we have here, boys?” The voice is rough, gravel under tires as it pops in the air.

 

She looks doe-eyed at him, fighting to ignore the hold he has on her. “Do you know how to get back to the road?”

 

He leers at her. “Hmm. We might, princess. We might.”

 

Several others have joined now. One of them looks a bit twitchy, unable to stand still for the flexing and jerking of his hand as he twists his head around with each flip of her hair. It isn’t until she bites her lower lip, rolls it decadently, and grinds her thighs together at the idea of them—one of them, any of them—that she notices the real difference.

 

They can smell her.

 

“The lady has something else on her mind, it seems. Eh, Bruce?”

 

The first looks over to the twitchy man who is stalking toward her now. He reaches out a hand, but it’s smacked away. He growls.

 

“We don’t take what isn’t ours.”

 

“Who said she’s yours, Jake?” Bruce asks.

 

“Found her. She’s mine.”

 

All the talk of possession has her leaning toward whom she assumes is Jake. She wants to know more about the camp. Maybe they’ll slip up. Maybe they’ll get comfortable during their squabble. Maybe she doesn’t care so much anymore with the hand tightening around her.

 

“What do you want, princess?”

 

The name pops her out of the fake stupor. She’s always hated that name. With a shake of the long hair she’s not used to, she tosses it over her shoulder and shrugs, trying to make it casual.

 

“I was just trying to find—”

 

Jake cuts her off with a wild grope at her arse, plump fingers digging in. She can’t help the little moan that slips out.

 

“I really should—”

 

“No.” It’s a solid word. It stops her from moving, answering.

 

His pupils are blown and several of the pack surround them now. She isn’t sure if she wants this—any of this—anymore.

 

A memory of Remus flashes. His moon-lust, hips rocking, unable to stop, biting at her throat with the need to claim, and she hears herself grunt, shift in Jake’s hold.

 

“This one’s gagging for it, lads.” His arms come around her fully now. “Might as well give the lady what she wants, eh?”

 

She doesn’t register the movement until he’s shoving her through the flap of his tent.

 

“I’m not sure—”

 

“It’s really too late for that, love,” he says, palming at the hardness in his trousers. She swallows as her eyes follow the movement. “Be a good girl and give an old wolf his due.”

 

Tonks jumps at the sound of a howl from outside the tent. She’s not sure if it’s a wolf or a man, but the sound is unsettling all the same. Before her, Bruce has a hand inside his open trousers, head thrown back as his jaw juts forward. All the while, he stares at Tonks, licking his lips as if he wants to devour her.

 

Part of her wants to know what he’s offering, but another very logical part wants to run, to flee, and begins to reach for the Portkey at her wrist. He catches sight of this and stops what he’s doing.

 

“What have you got there, love?”

 

Stalking forward, he grabs both of her arms, pushes her against the bed and begins to rub the harsh stubble of his jaw against her cheek. She gasps. The invitation of her open mouth is something he can’t resist, so his tongue steals inside, swirling around hers in some semblance of a kiss. It’s more brutal than that; his lips press roughly to hers and she struggles to keep his teeth from clacking against her own.

 

The feel of him rutting at her hip is a distraction she can’t afford. She slips—keeps slipping into a place where she wants to close her eyes and let it happen, but then his fingers grip a little too tightly or his teeth close down in just the _wrong_ spot and she squirms. He delights in this.

 

Bruce removes her shirt first. In doing so, he has to let her arms drop, has to let her move and bend. As she’s exposed to him, she hears the increased grunts from him, the way his body seems to loom over her now as if he doesn’t want her to slip away like a ghost in the night, like a dream he might have been having.

 

It’s just a moment for him to shove her bra up beneath her chin, where his fingers and teeth and tongue can then play with her exposed breasts. She can’t help the moan when he worries at a nipple for a little too long—tugging, pulling, _twisting_.

 

He stills. For one beautiful second, Bruce doesn’t move as he rests his forehead against her sternum with hands gripping her waist. He breathes deeply for several seconds before growling, rocking against the bunched-up sheet of the bed and lurching forward.

 

She doesn’t have time to reach for the Portkey before he tears it from her. He rips off the necklace she got from her mother at her coming of age and tosses it into the darkness. It’s the loss of that more than anything that makes her feel naked. A little bit of anger brews in her eyes and Bruce takes it for lust. Charged with energy, though perhaps the wrong sort, he grabs at the material of her jeans and fumbles awkwardly with the button. Eventually, he decides to dig his fingers beneath the material and yank it down. She can feel his nails leave marks in the skin at her hips as he pulls.

 

It’s a little painful. She can’t decide if she likes it.

 

Then everything is gone. She’s naked on the low bed in his tent and he’s kneeling before her, tearing at his shirt. Somewhere in her mind, she thinks she can run away, wonders if she could wandlessly Disapparate. She knows she can’t; she’d tried again last week and failed. Instead, she watches as the man—wolf?—above her thumbs his pants down, causing his cock to drop heavily against his thigh.

 

The clench of her stomach isn’t something she can help. It’s a bit of nausea and anticipation and something else. Is he like Remus? Will this be _anything_ like Remus?

 

A guttural grunt as he palms the base of his cock, grips it firmly and strokes upward, pulls her from that line of questioning. She shakes the memories away; they can’t help her now.

 

He watches her with a bit of wary lust and perhaps an edge of hunger. She’s still—maybe too still—and that alarms him.

 

Leaning over to whisper in her ear, he slides in the groove of her thigh, rolling his hips. “You want this, don’t you?” At her sharp intake of breath, he laughs, calls her a ‘filthy whore' and begins to shove her legs apart.

 

He isn’t Remus. There isn’t any foreplay or preparation. No—he grabs himself and shoves through the tight grip she’s making with the bracket of her thighs. Tonks reaches for his shoulders to brace herself, if nothing else. It’s not that it’s painful; it’s unexpectedly the opposite.

 

When he starts the filthy grind against her, the slap of skin as he pulls back and shoves back in, her wide eyes are startled. She’s caught between disgust and pleasure and doesn’t have any idea what to do with any of it.

 

Bruce uses one arm to lift a leg, hooks an elbow there and gives himself more room to maneuver. She hears the slap of his bollocks against her, feels them as they make slurpy, wet contact each time he surges forward. His face is screwed up in concentration, but soon enough he drops her leg, pulls away and shoves her shoulder, grabs at her hip until she’s on her stomach. He rolls her pelvis until it’s just high enough to enter from behind—but not so high that he’s truly up on his knees.

 

The effect is instant.

 

Tonks can feel all of him against her now. She can feel the sweat of his chest against her back and the way his stomach rolls each time he pulls back. His teeth dig at the muscle of her neck, and she pants at the frantic bunch and curl of his thrusting. He doesn’t move away so much as press and press and press.

 

When she feels it, she starts to whine. His cock swells, but it’s nothing like Remus. Instead of slowing and letting it happen gradually, Bruce continues to let the knot catch, lets it pull viciously at the rim of her until he has to forcibly shove it back inside. She claws at the bed when it feels like he’s tearing her apart, when it feels like she can’t stretch anymore, but he’s still trying to _move._

 

Her body is fighting him, fighting her, struggling to get anywhere but where it is, and she can feel everything inside of her saying ‘yes, no, fuck _, please_.’ The tears falling onto the pillow are a mixture of relief and pain when he stutters something unintelligible, lets out a prolonged growl, and comes inside of her.

 

She knows it’s not over when he collapses on her back, licking at her neck, slowly rocking against her. They’ll be tied like this for a while.

 

The best she can hope for is that he’s exhausted himself; that he’s a sleeper and that she’ll get to try and sort her emotions while he empties himself inside of her.

 

She hopes.

 

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

 

All she knows is the way he whimpers as his cock falls from her, a wet smear across her thigh. He continues to lay there breathing heavily. Panic isn’t an option; she’s without clothes, a wand—her Portkey.

 

She closes her eyes and waits for him to rouse.

 

A clearing of his throat and the scratch of stubble at her shoulder alerts her. He’s waking up. It’s when his breathing quickens, when the length at her hip is again insistent, that she starts to tremble.

 

One of his fingers traces the line of her waist. For a moment—just one—Tonks stops breathing. She isn’t sure she’s maintained the illusion. Is she the same woman she came into camp as? She spares a look down at her body, and he takes it as an invitation.

 

He grabs himself and strokes, eyes fluttering closed. In the second it takes her to realize what he’s doing, she tries to move away, but he pins here there, uses his knees to spread her apart, and finds her with his fingers. They’re blunt; his fingernails sharp. There’s no pleasure in this. She squirms. Perhaps the wolf sees this as a mate unwilling to submit. Perhaps he sees it as prey.

 

He grabs her hips until they’re still, shoving his cock between them. She gasps at the odd sensation, of him between her thighs and just brushing up against her clit. He’s awkward and rushed and comes quickly.

 

A pat to her arse has her off-kilter. Unsure what to do, if she’s allowed to move, she focuses on steadying her breathing.

 

The wolf stands, tucks himself into the pair of trousers he’d thrown to the floor in the night, and makes his way round to her face.

 

“You were a pleasure, love. I think I’ll keep you for a bit.”

 

Fumbling around on the floor, he pulls out a rope and begins tying her hands to the bedpost. There are so many things going through her mind that she can’t seem to make sense of any of them. She wants to ask him for water. She wants to ask how long he plans to keep her. She wants to know if he’s in league with Voldemort.

 

She doesn’t ask any of it.

 

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

 

Tonks wakes to ropes insistently digging at her wrists and the edge of awareness slowly coming back. A soreness reminds her that she’s been used several times; a slight twist of her knees pulls a moan from pain among other things. She’s trying to take stock of everything, of herself, when she hears it.

 

The camp is alive.

 

Voices call out and the distinct sound of boots thumping around the tent make her anxious. She attempts to calm her breathing, to steady the erratic rhythm of her heart so that some sense can be made of the chaos. Instead, she’s startled when the tent flap opens, blinding her with early morning light.

 

“Thought I smelled a treat,” a new voice growls from just outside. Shadows play in the light now, several of them dancing across her retinas.

 

Someone laughs. “Bitch in there’s a wildcat, if Bruce is anything to go by.”

 

“Fuck yeah, she is.” That’s Bruce. She knows Bruce’s voice.

 

A snort from the first, followed by, “Look at you. She must have some claws by the bruises you’re sporting—and that shit-eating grin. Damn pup, where did you find her?”

 

“Wandered into camp, she did,” another offered.

 

“She doesn’t scream so much. Not nearly as much as some of the others. From what I can tell, she fucking loves my knot—” Here the others laugh, but Bruce continues, “I swear she’s taken one before, because there wasn’t even a bit of surprise there.”

 

“Wolf-slut, eh?” the new man asks.

 

Bruce takes a moment to respond, but when he does, it sounds like he’s proud. “Hasn’t tried to escape yet. I think she rather likes it with me.”

 

There’s more laughter, though Tonks can’t decide if it’s with Bruce or at him.

 

“If she’s gagging for you, wait until she gets a taste of this.” She can only imagine the crude gestures they’re making with the wiggling of shadows before her. “Now fuck off so I can play for a bit.”

 

“But—”

 

He growls, and Tonks shivers. “Did I stutter?”

 

She hears the sound of footsteps growing soft. “No, sir. Let us know when we can return, sir.”

 

“As I thought. Now fuck off.”

 

There’s grumbling as they leave, but she doesn’t hear any of them, doesn’t hear _anything_ until a hand grabs at the edge of the tent and pulls it a bit wider. For a moment, she thinks he’s going to close the flap and leave her be, but then she sees him.

 

She would know that face anywhere.

 

“Hello, love.”

 

Fear has an awful taste. When combined with panic and an intense curiosity, fear can lead to paralysis. Tonks is unable to move when that scarred face comes fully into focus, when that tent flap drops and she’s finally alone with him.

 

He moves around the space slowly. Fingers casually trace the outlines of objects they’re clearly unfamiliar with. His feet shuffle as if they’re afraid of tripping over something. When she turns her head to follow him, he tilts his chin and takes a deep breath, savoring something—what, she’s not sure.

 

“Your body betrays you, love.”

 

The question must be obvious in her eyes, because the rest of her still isn’t able to move.

 

Fenrir turns to face her fully. She takes in the pocked face, the scars at his brow and chin, the rings on his fingers and leather bracers he wears, worn and scratched. Oddly enough, she looks to his boots which are laced high to just below his knees. His trousers are snug and she can make out the soft line of him against his thigh.

 

His eyes—his eyes, though, are something else entirely. Tonks blinks once, again, and tries to decide whether they’re merely such a dark brown as to be mud or if they’re black.

 

He stares right back at her, grins so that the bottoms of his teeth show. Four swift steps (four, because she counts them with the panicked breaths she takes) bring him right up against her.

 

“I can smell the fear on you,” he whispers against her neck, his breath humid and sticky on her skin. “I can taste the sweat and salt of your skin—” here, he licks just below her ear, which causes her to tense and tremble “—and I can smell the way you want this.” His hand, so rough and assured, drops to cup her, to massage her clit with the base of his thumb, the tip of one finger running along the ridge of her labia.

 

She doesn’t think she’s capable of answering, so she doesn’t. She bites her lip and closes her eyes, willing her body to ignore it. Though she tries to clamp her legs together, to roll away from his touch, he digs his nails in and it’s too much, _too much_.

 

A soft wetness glides along her shoulder and up the side of her neck and she tries to pull away. Instead, his arms grip her tighter to himself, grinding her against the feel of him, hard and eager in his trousers. She moans, eyes flying open when she realizes what she’s done, and tries to dig at his arms with her nails, leaving welts where she finds purchase.

 

Husky laughter is all she hears as he squeezes tighter, taking the breath from her. Fenrir lowers her to the bed. There’s nothing Tonks can do but move with him as his body encases her own.

 

“I don’t—” she starts, her voice arcing high off the roof of her mouth, ricocheting around as if it has nowhere to go but out.

 

“You don’t what?” he growls, stilling for just a moment.

 

“No,” she says, closing her eyes and shaking the long strands of hair matted there against her neck.

 

One of his hands moves back between her legs and sinks sinfully into her, his fingers rapidly pulsing upward.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” he demands.

 

The open ‘O’ of her surprised mouth is plundered by his tongue, which tastes of stale cigarettes and something spicy he’s recently eaten. The combination is repulsive, and she tries to turn away, but he braces on an elbow, the other hand holding her jaw in place. He doesn’t move his gaze from hers; no, he makes her look at him as he takes what he wants from her body.

 

“Please,” Tonks whimpers.

 

Fenrir takes this as encouragement rather than a request to stop. His torn nail catches at the edge of her as he pulls out, plunges back in, and she grunts, sucking in a breath with a wince.

 

“Stop.” Tears are starting to well beneath her closed lids, but she’s unwilling to let them fall. “Just stop.”

 

Instead, he leaves his fingers deep within her and rotates, pumping mercilessly against that spot.

 

If she closes her eyes, tries to forget, it will be over soon. The stench and feel of him, the putrid feel of his body against hers will be gone and then she can flee.

 

Then he moves deeper; twisting, curling, seeking.

 

She starts to feel her traitorous body moving toward orgasm, the build and pull from her lower body, and her chin tips back harshly. For one moment of pleasure, Tonks escapes him to the whims of her own body. It’s coming back down that she feels him fumbling with his boots, unzipping his flies. The jostling of the mattress is unsettling for so many reasons, but she’s too sluggish to move, her mind too hazy to _run_.

 

Skin. The stick and peel of sweaty skin brings her back. Fenrir looms over her, pawing at her as if she’s nothing more than a doll.

 

“No,” she whispers, but it comes out as something barely more than a croak. Her throat is too dry.

 

“What’s that, love?” he asks as he rolls her on her side.

 

Tonks tries to cover herself with hands that refuse to move properly, so she looks quite like a drugged marionette. “Nn—”

 

He grins. “That’s what I thought.” His hand comes down on her shoulder, firmly holding her on her side as he slides her top leg upward, shoving two fingers in her to slather some of her own wetness around. She feels him moving then. His knuckles repeatedly bump against her arse, and he’s grunting. She can only guess he’s wanking himself in some obscene way behind her, but she doesn’t look; can’t look. She can barely breathe for the force he’s putting on her as he pushes her down, nose crushed into the pillow below.

 

The next thing she knows, he’s propped up and using one hand to guide himself inside of her.

 

Tonks shakes her head fervently back and forth, whispering, “No. No- no-no-no-no,” but it doesn’t stop him.

 

He ignores her. He ignores every tense muscle in her body that’s telling him this isn’t all right. He’s blatantly overlooking her clenched fists and bleeding lip as she bites down to keep from screaming.

 

Fenrir doesn’t notice any of these things. Instead, he lets out a deep grunt, slaps her arse roughly and grips her hips before pulling out and slamming back in. The power of it startles Tonks, and she’s forced to brace herself in the mess of sheets on the bed. Fenrir continues his onslaught, hips snapping quickly and grinding filthily against her as she whimpers beneath him, too out of breath to scream, to call for help.

 

No one would help her here. The thought has her retreating further into herself, tucked away into a small piece of her mind that she’s clinging to desperately.

 

His fingers dig greedily at her, letting go only to readjust and sink deeper. She can feel them clenching, bruising, rending the muscle where he’s holding her, keeping her there.

 

Her body begins to respond, though she’s screaming ‘no, please, I don’t _want_ this.’ The words, however, refuse to come out. She’s clutching at the sheets and her open mouth is gawping as if she can’t get enough air and maybe, if she tries hard enough, she can swallow herself whole.

 

Tonks thinks she might have lost consciousness. She remembers him pinching at her nipple and growling when she twitched involuntarily at the sensation. She remembers the swelling of his cock as he takes her. She knows the tug and pull and his knot as he continues to pull out even after he’s too big. He’s torn her. She cries out, scrambling to get away, but he shoves back in even after that. Some act of mercy keeps him from doing it again, as he keeps his hips against hers. She feels the roll of his knot inside her, pressing, _pressing,_ and she groans.

 

“Do y’like that, love?” she hears, though she barely registers it as a question.

 

She can’t answer anyway.

 

She would tell him no.

 

Her body would say yes.

 

“Do y’like my filthy cock in your twat? Hmm?” She buries her head in the sheets to try and block him out, to disappear. “None of that now. Can you feel it? I’m almost there. I’m gonna fill you with my pups. Would you like that?”

 

She’s telling her body to shake her head _no_ , but can’t feel it move. Fear. Paralysis.

 

“Oh, love. You smell so fucking ripe I just want to—” he licks at the back of her shoulder blade “— _eat_ you.”

 

Her breaths come rapidly now. She feels his knot swelling larger; it’s painful and she can’t concentrate.

 

When it’s too much, when his body stills behind her, she screams. This time, it’s an out-loud scream she hears with her own ears.

 

His teeth sink into the flesh at the junction of her neck and shoulder. When he has a firm grip on her, worrying it just a little, he begins emptying himself inside her. She feels the warm pulses of him as her fingers shred the threadbare sheets, rending them useless.

 

“Knew you were a screamer.”

 

The pain of his knot grinding impossibly into her, teeth tugging, and a tongue lapping at the blood dripping down her shoulder, push her into the _other_ place, and she’s drifting.

 

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

 

Waking is a slow thing. It’s hazy and liquid.

 

Tonks tries to move, to assess her body, but feels the ropes around her wrists again. Her head drops to her chest and she winces.

 

The bite.

 

So it did happen. She focuses on trying to breathe deeply and adjust her legs, which are now tingling from having been tucked beneath her awkwardly for so long. Tonks bites her lip as she kicks out the bottom leg, forcing blood flow back into that foot.

 

“—well I’m the one who took her first.”

 

“And I’m your fucking Alpha. Are you questioning that, Bruce?”

 

There’s a scuffle outside and everything is still.

 

“No, sir. I’m—”

 

“You’re what?”

 

“I’m at your mercy, sir.”

 

“As I thought. Now fuck off.”

 

The tent flap begins to open, then immediately drops. There’s a lot of hustling and boots running past, and some of the men are screaming. Tonks tries to lower herself to the ground, but struggles as they’ve tied her upright.

 

She’s tugging at the ropes, trying desperately to summon her wand, but nothing is happening. Then she hears them. Picking out individual voices is difficult, but she knows some of them—Sirius and Shacklebolt. Those two she would recognize anywhere.

 

When the tent flap opens again, she’s expecting Fenrir. She doesn’t anticipate a slender man in tattered trousers and a worn jumper slipping through. Tonks huddles in on herself, trying to cover what she can of her exposed body.

 

He stares just long enough that she can see the pity.

 

“Let me help you down,” he whispers, barely able to get the words out.

 

She can’t respond. The words are caught in her throat, so she lets him. When the ropes are loose and her hands are free, she scrambles away, finds her wand. and clutches it protectively to herself.

 

“I—” he begins. “I’ll let you get some clothes on.”

 

She nods, eyes wide as he turns around, not leaving the tent as she expected him to. Tonks has to think in order to shift her features back. It’s been too long, and her body is used to maintaining the image. She recalls the purple hair and the hazel eyes, the shorter frame and the rounded hips. Her body doesn’t immediately come back to her. It takes time, which she is appalled at.

 

When she’s herself, she reaches tentative fingers up to her neck and searches.

 

Her clothes come quickly after that. She wants to protect her body, to shield it from the man before her. They’re not enough. They’re not nearly enough.

 

“Are you dressed?” he asks.

 

“Y—” She coughs, realizing that she’s not spoken for a while. “Yes.”

 

As he turns, she feels it again, the anger. He steps toward her and she recoils, stopped only by the walls of the tent.

 

“Dora…”

 

“No.”

 

The word is small, but he stands still.

 

“Dora, please.”

 

“I said no, Remus.”

 

“Dora, did he—” His face searches her, sniffs at the air, and then he must have caught it, caught the difference in her scent. “Oh Merlin, Dora.”

 

“No, Remus. You don’t get to do this.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he cries as he falls to the ground, palms open on his thighs. “I’m so, so sorry.” The words become a litany he repeats over and over to himself.

 

Tonks watches him, there on the floor where he’s unable to look back at her.

 

“I’m someone else’s problem now,” she tells him. “You never wanted me to be like you. You never wanted us to be together. Isn’t this what you wanted? Me walking out the door?”

 

As she leaves the tent, Tonks hears his anguished cries and continues walking, though her legs are a bit unsteady and her heart races beneath the waxing moon.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:  
> After having sex with Remus near the full moon, she becomes obsessed with sleeping with werewolves in similar conditions. Her obsession attracts a certain werewolf who is more than willing to use her for his own needs.


End file.
